


Flicker and Burn

by changkyunnie



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Dancing, Drinking, Heavy Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied mental illness, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, M/M, Marking, Poverty, Prostitute AU, Sex Work, Smoking, Stripper Shin Hoseok | Wonho, Triggers, Unrequited Love, rich hyungwon, there's no fluff its straight up tragic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-02 18:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11515047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/changkyunnie/pseuds/changkyunnie
Summary: Because even for the richest of men, love held a price almost too expensive to pay.





	1. Ignite

**Author's Note:**

> I'm warning you guys now this is going to be a wild ride ok so hang on tight, also this is my first hyungwonho fic so yay!!

  
Cracked glass is smoother than it appears, Hoseok notices.

Worn and forlorn fingers fumble their way across a clear surface, reflective of nightmares and something undoubtedly miserable. Flashes of midnight creep their way in through the window nearby, illuminating the glass to expose the image that appears to lie on the other side, soft kisses of glitter decorating a body battered and bruised with all the blues and reds of the colour spectrum.

It's not the kind of glitter one would think to be beautiful, a decoration for something unbelievably grand, oh no. It's a permanent reminder of the places he's been, the actions that tease at his fingertips, slither through the back of his mind like a whispering snake that taunts him with his own self loathing. It's something like confetti that sticks to him from his own personal pity party, dirty and disgusting as it rains down on his skin and smudges his fingers with brilliant gold.

And not even the frosted, cold water from his rusted shower head could wash the deeds away.

Hoseok eyes the lines that run across the cool material of the mirror, creating the effect of a spider web like pattern, tracing each one and following it with his smudged fingertips that leave tiny bits of gold and dirt in their wake. He plays a melody with his hands as he draws out a map of shattered demise, taking a sick, twisted pride in the shards stained with red that lie across the vanity, the only colour he refuses to despise, like a relaxing sigh that steals him from the hardships of life.

If you could even call this living.

The scent of smoke is thick as it clings to his black hair and invades his senses, filling the room with a distinct type of euphoria only Hoseok may find enjoyment in. It dries his lungs and burns his throat, flare burning deep inside his stomach as it turns his sadness into little bits of ash, a wasteland of destruction and crisp blackness that plagues his mind and corrupts him. The ashen breaths come out as wheezes unheard by human ears, a silent cry for help from his beaten lungs.

Hoseok's glittery eyelids flutter closed at the feeling of his fingers coming into contact with the mirror, silence seeping in through the cracks, watching and waiting. Long eyelashes frame a face that stares back with an equal amount of malevolence, eyes ignited by hate burning within a frozen body that is begging to be lit with the flames of his self-doubt, a blaze fit for a rampage of emotion. It tears him apart and ravages him from the inside, leaving with it scars that pain him more than those revealed by the red lines on his soft skin, a kind of internal battle that raged on throughout the years and ceased at the spill of crimson rain.

The time between then and now comes to an abrupt stop, trapping him within the mirror and an escape too far down the road, out of reach of his ever so dirty hands that struggle to remain at his sides, itching to drag their way across jagged surfaces and bathe him in colours other than gold. He finds it tiring how the glass catches the last light of the dying day behind them, a signal of dread as it sets the walls ablaze with flames, oranges and yellows that drip down the wall like molten lava.

It reflects off of the material, the walls, him, lighting Hoseok up like the glitter that streaks the corners of his eyes, decorating him in the death of another, the light crawling down his fair skin and creating the effect of golden tears, and no doubt covering his entire body from head to toe in the only enlightenment he will ever receive.

But then the light is gone, dusk approaching with the wind that shakes the tiny window above, a breath like a reminder that tickles his skin in a way no person ever could. It takes with it the light that day brings, snatches up the bits of ash he exhales and carries them somewhere he cannot find them, a trail of smoke following every movement of his limbs.

It's grim, dark, like the absence of light that follows the sorrowful blow of a person extinguishing a candle. A whisper to accompany the thoughts that race around his mind, before the shadows forfeit their life and blend in with the caliginous corners of nightfall.

A sigh, no doubt one he himself has heard many a time before.

Just another 8 in the evening, he thinks.

 

The alleyway is dimly lit by a faint glow of light from above, casting somber shadows upon the stone ground below and flickering against his eyes like a flame that threatens to disappear. The streetlights, although dying themselves, -have been for years now, Hoseok thinks- bring his shadow to life as it dances along the pathway, stepping in rhythm with his weak heartbeat that he barely feels in his chest. They perform a ballet against the sides of the worn building and skip along through the twilight, pale moon eventually illuminating the figure that was unfortunate enough to be the one alive, and erasing the one that was lucky to have never really been there in the first place.

It's all the same to him, however, the moment the familiar drunken howls and sleazy music begins to reach his ears. It's a routine, the only part of it he thinks he will ever enjoy. Hoseok loves the repetition, adoring how easy it is to fall into a pattern crafted especially for you, and you alone, because the more days that pass by in sync with each other, the more times the hands go round the clock in perfect sequence each day, the closer the street lamps are to burning out. And so is he.

It's a promise to himself, sealed underneath the glitter stained shards and the cracks that mark his surprisingly fragile body, locked with a kiss to blood covered knuckles, and crystal tears that have been shed so many times he can still feel the taste of salt that poisons his tongue. Its written in ink that's been spilled in between the pages, tattered and ripped by sharp fingernails that scratch and claw with fury, shaky hands covered in too much damn glitter.

And no matter what happens, no matter who strings him up and tears him down, they can never, not once, take that away from him.

Manicured hands grasp onto the handle in front of him and push the heavy door open without hesitation. The accustomed scent of thick cigarette smoke greets him at the entrance, intoxicating the room with a fervent and much needed relief, darkening the atmosphere in a hazy kind of way. Hoseok immediately sheds his coat, confidently displaying himself as he steps inside the darkness. The room is well lit, illuminated by the glowing lights and effects, yet to Hoseok it appears positively lurid, a sickly aphotic cage with bars cold as ice.

The second his coat hits the floor behind him, the eyes of all the men in the room are turned in his direction, eyeing their favourite worker in his risky clothing that reeks of golden glitter and lighter fluid. Hungry gazes rake down his figure and take in the sight presented to them, and although he is submitted to it every single day, he can't help but feel as dirty as he does, like a sparkling trophy for these people to fight over. It's degrading, humiliating and shameful...yet, it promises money, so he pushes that down and struts with an air of false confidence, putting on a show he knows will get him at least a couple of bucks.

Hoseok knows he looks beautiful, can't deny it's the one thing he's got going for him, and never fails to deliver. Hell, he's probably fucked every guy present today, workers included, if they had the money he desired. It's not a want but a need, a desperation unlike any other, a reason for him to cover his eyes in dazzling makeup that lures in the cash.

He darts a tongue out to lick his lips absentmindedly and tilts his head back in a teasing manner as he surveys tonight's crowd, searching for a target to focus his attention on.

Hoseok's eyes land on a man who, although hidden in a darker corner of the room, seems to own it as he places his feet up on the table and drapes his arms casually over the two males at his side, softly stroking the hair of one as the other hand holds a glass of red wine up to soft, plush lips. His eyes are pure ice, sharply digging into Hoseok's own as the worker seems to pique his interest, the man drinking in the sight of spandex and tousled black hair, accompanied by golden glitter that rains down on perfectly structured collar bones.

The man raises an eyebrow in question before smirking around the crystalline glass at his lips, line of sight never leaving Hoseok's built frame as he takes his feet down from the coffee table in front of him. The two men at his sides (who are, he notes, nearly naked) move out of the way without a second thought, seemingly scared of the powerful aura the figure emits, surrounding him in a shroud of mystery.

There's a moment of silence in which Hoseok finds his peace, an overlapping backtrack of time that soothes his burns and muffles his inner cries, a sigh of encouragement mixing with the turmoil that burns his throat. It's a mechanism designed to give him his last second of being Hoseok, just Hoseok, before handing himself over and slipping into his facade for the rest of the night, like a mask of pure sin that covers up his true personality.

Within milliseconds, it disappears, lingering like a murmuring afterthought as he faces the man head on and wipes any trace of reality from his being.

The person stops centimeters from his face, waiting to see how the shorter male responds to the close proximity, letting his eyes lock with the other's and smirking darkly with desire upon viewing the courage and confidence he finds there. The hand that is not currently occupied by the wine glass reaches up with a slender finger to push one underneath his golden choker, eyes never leaving Hoseok's as he admires the sight of him at his complete mercy. The raven haired man vaguely entertains the thought of how that face and body would look under his own, if the glitter he is lightly covered in reached to other areas well.

Either someone has paused the music that thrums through the room or Hoseok has spaced out, fading from reality at the touch of a hand that teases his brilliant collar, a symbol of his captivity to this place. It represents ownership, imprisonment, and the fact that his life teeters on the edge of a cliff, his boss' fingertips not far behind.

It's a reminder, just like the glitter.

The man doesn't seem to bother with that connection, though, and simply admires the object as it shines and sparkles underneath the dazzling club lights. He pays close attention to the worker's pale skin as well, watching in fascination as it quivers where it's touched, but aside from that Hoseok takes the treatment quietly.  
He's learned to do so after years of the deafening screams, the punches, the punishment for misbehaving...having long forgotten even owning the ability to speak up.

Hoseok patiently awaits instructions or some form of an order to be spoken, frozen at his fingertips as if he were frostbitten by those malicious eyes that strike his skin. Most of the surrounding customers and even a portion of the workers have stopped to stare at the interaction, like they knew something that Hoseok didn't. A secret.

It's at this moment that his hearing decides to return, or it was never really gone in the first place and the room had just been that silent. He isn't quite sure anymore.

"Name?"

It's one word, simple and sweet as it slips off of a sinful tongue, insanity and lust dripping at the edges of their beings, accompanied by a mixture of smells due to the stranger moving in closer. The scent of sharp, expensive cologne is harsh and invasive, a permanent marking of economic standing that bleeds into the fabric of his well tailored suit. There's also a faint hint of smoke, musk, an ashen breeze that drifts off of his cufflinks like a trail of something not quite innocent.

Before the man can reprimand him for his silence, Hoseok finds something inside pushing a reply out of his lips, a force that drives him to please.

"Wonho," he responds. Easy, simple.

The mood in the club shifts, atmosphere becoming less tense with the drag of a cigarette somewhere near the back. A puff of smoke to calm the nerves.

"Pretty," he purrs. It sends a shiver down Hoseok's spine, a finger dragging its way across his back like a breath of frost.

The stranger seems to have found what he was looking for, removing his finger from the shining collar but not before meeting the older male's eyes with a mischievous smirk. His deft hands now move to grasp at his suit jacket, easing it off of his thin shoulders and slipping it from his lithe frame, tossing it back onto the dark leather sofa behind him. Afterwards, Hoseok's eyes are met with a simple white dress shirt, crisp and clean with the top couple of buttons undone to reveal a smooth, pale chest beneath. Hoseok would find it almost alluring had he not seen the same kind of beauty in hundreds of other men.

"Well, Wonho," He speaks, carelessness evident in his speech, regarding the younger as a lesser being. His eyes darken even more if possible when he seats himself on a couch closer to the stage and beckons him forward with a wavering hand. "Let's see what you've got."

Hoseok inhales, taking in the thick clouds of smoke and letting them sit in his lungs as he prepares himself, intoxicating his breath and going drunk on nicotine, a ritual of pleasant calm to relax him. He focuses on nothing but his chest expanding, then deflating, and the lights that dance across his skin, framing him in a trap of dazzling demise.

The serenity is short lived, followed almost immediately by a music cue as he steps on stage, hands grasping the cool, metal pole that shines the same way it has for years, never losing its sheen no matter what beats it or who touches it. Just like Hoseok.

The next few minutes are a blur, a whirr of effortless movement performed like expert clockwork under clouds of thick grey. It starts in his feet and works its way up, filling him with familiarity that dares to spill over and drown him in sorrows, a wave of repetition with an undertow almost too dangerous to dance in. The waves overlap and crash inside of his mind, spreading through his veins and providing the energy needed to begin a routine, a natural response to the feel of metal under his palms.

At the final steps of his countdown music starts to filter through the speakers, filling the club with something other than smog and ridding the senses of the momentary bliss, a clear cut swipe of excitement to spur you on. While he is preparing to begin customers are knocking back shots of twisted liquor, trailing down throats as they open their mouths to catcall the dancer on stage. If Hoseok wasn't used to the treatment he thinks it might bother him, but it doesn't even reach his ears.

One last look into the stranger's eyes, and time unpauses, recording replaying like a cassette tape stuck on the same exact scene. Familiar.

Hoseok effortlessly lifts his body off of the floor, figure twisting and turning as he wraps himself around the cool metal, legs intertwining and golden shorts sparkling underneath the spotlight, the only time he will ever have one. His feet tip toe through the air, pointing and flexing this way and that.

The man below him surveys the scene in front, watching the way the lights come to life on the exposed skin, flowing down a muscular frame that captures an essence of smoke and appears to glow with radiance. It's entrancing, he thinks, how hair so black could seem to shine as bright as the stars outside, a shock of electricity to spark through the room and burst to life within the clouds of toxicity. A dream ever so sweet that counters on the edge of a nightmare, observing yet not interfering with what it cannot hope to overcome.

The glitter and the dark eyeliner that curl around his eyes like the tendrils of smoke that leave his lips catch the light as if they were embers that lick at his skin, burning his pupils and setting them ablaze as they meet those of the man in the crowd. He feels as though his figure is heating up, on fire as the temperature of the room undoubtedly rises, a thin layer of sweat sparkling on his light skin. It only serves to worsen as his crotch comes into contact with the pole in hand, adding sensual rolls of the hips to the routine along with risky lip bites.

Hoseok leans back, slowly, inhaling the scents that gather in the air.

Everything past that point, all the moments and movements within the exspanse of this time, erase themselves completely. His mind tears up the memories and devours the tears that brim in sparkling eyes, extinguishing his true self while it feeds the fire of his mask. He loses count of how many times his lungs contract, begging to cough and wheeze when all he can do is suppress the urge to scream. His cries would no doubt fall on deaf ears, yet he will never risk such a move again.

Hoseok is a firm believer that a mistake is only to be made once. Make it again, and it shows what kind of person you really are. If you're even a person in the first place.

Had you asked Hoseok how his night went, he would tell you. He would tell you of the smoke, how it curled in through his nostrils and exited through his mouth, taking with it glitter that filled him up from the inside and drowned him in false happiness. He could possibly recount meeting a man, or maybe not. Maybe all he really caught was the scent of the cologne, or the sight of eyes so dark he swears he could find his own twisted soul deep inside.

Hoseok might remember finishing his routine, and he may speak of how he ended up outside. He will remember the street lamps, as he never forgets to compare himself to their state, or examine how the brightness never seems to fade. Never.

He will not, however, remember landing in a bed that of course is not his own. How many times has it ever been his? Probably less than he could count on both hands, if he were being quite honest. But no, he will not remember being pinned to a bed so soft inside an apartment so lavish, won't even think about a certain man the next morning or the feeling of lips tracing his skin.

Of course he won't. He'll block it out, another page from his story shredded and lost in the piles of paper he has already torn.

He has to.

How else do you survive in a place such as this? A life like his?

The answer: you _don't._

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's during the hour between the dusk and the dawn when his memories return, crashing into his mind once more and filling his lungs in the form of black smoke, choking him on regret and bitter hatred. The drags he takes from the cigarette he holds are long, perhaps too long. Maybe he's subconsciously singing his tongue, or maybe he knows exactly what he's doing.

Maybe he wishes to burn.

The night air (or was it morning?) is cool as it enraptures him, curls around his frame and begs to freeze him solid. The breeze is positively rechid and unrelenting, a force that chills his bones and nearly serves to extinguish his barely flickering flame. Yet, Hoseok doesn't even register it. Can't.

It's a stage of his pattern, a never ending dance of destruction he performs along tightropes of smoke, tendrils of grey that laugh at his pain, wheeze at his struggles. The repetition is a safety net he falls back on with secretive hope that it may someday break, send him crashing down to flames below that consume and end him, silently, like the moon overtaking the sun at dusk.

The alleyway beside the apartment building is relatively quiet at this hour, noise from the city streets trailing behind him like remnants of a past life he wishes to return to. It sinks in, deja vu teasing his spine with an icy fingertip, drawing from him a whimper that displays just how cracked he truly is, counts the tears he holds back behind dull eyes that appear to sparkle with the makeup that surrounds them. A lie, sick and twisted.

In his peripheral vision he notes there is a streetlight almost identical to that of the club's door hanging above, mounted on the top of one of the building's exits behind his back. It attracts moths whose wings cast tiny shadows along the ground, dancing along the pavement with not a care in the world, decorating the night sky in place of stars veiled by thick smog and city pollution. He also notices the lamp fading, light growing tired of life the way he has found himself so many times.

You know you've hit rock bottom when you compare a fucking streetlight to your fate. _Pathetic_.

An adagio of sweet summer nights flits about on tattered wings, lighting up the streets beyond the alley's entrance. Everything past it is dark, distinguished, a threshold that brings with it only loneliness and vulgarity, a place for demons to live and evil to grow in the hearts of the innocent. It's a doorway Hoseok has passed through on the bad nights, the good nights, the nights full of wandering mystery and begging underneath hundreds of ash clouds that hang in the air, swirling corruption guarding his shivering body.

There's a certain peace in the solitude, a harmonious spin off to the desolation and destruction inside. Hoseok feels it in the hours between the quiet whispers and the shimmering lights, a space that he can slide into, even if just for a moment.

The times are a rarity, he can't lie. But it's enough. He would much rather have a smoke at the cost of a lung than suffer throughout an entire shift.

Just as he's about to head back inside and fall into bed with his client, the door beside him opens, hesitantly, telling Hoseok that whoever is behind it probably does not come out here often, or not at all. The lamp above them jitters as if sensing a newfound presence, alerting the city to the arrival of the man he had met only hours before.

A tall, dark haired figure emerges from the exit, looking ethereal against the artificial flares of the city skyline. He reaches a hand up to smooth back his black locks and spins around on his heel, inquisitive gaze landing on Hoseok and eyeing the stick of ash between his fingers. He can't tell if it's disgust, curiosty, surprise, or a combination of all three, a mixture of undistinct expression concocted from glittery fingertips and sputtering exhaust.

A sigh of relief. "There you are. I was starting to think you ran off on me," His client smirks, clearly amused at what probably seems like a blatant attempt at an escape. Hoseok does not return the smile. He grimaces, blowing out little ringlets from in between his soft pink lips. His tongue runs along his teeth and picks up the leftover ash, swallowing it along with a decent, formal reply.

"Just came out for a quick smoke, I guess," He stiffly responds.

The stranger who is far more strange than any person he has ever met surprisingly does not shout, doesn't even appear to be angry at all. His shoulders relax and his face softens, formality melting away in front of Hoseok's ever jittering flames. It's a sight he has never seen, a person speaking to him as if they stood on equal grounds, like he wasn't just a toy built purely for their amusement. He thinks this may be the only time someone has treated him as a human, as a person who has thoughts and an inner voice, a mind of his own.

And how sad is that?

The silence that envelops them does nothing to lift his somber attitude that darkens along with each and every puff from the cigarette. He leans against the wall and props himself up on worn bricks, steadying himself as if afraid he might fall and not get back up again. You can never be too careful, after all, and someone like himself is in need of all the caution in the world.

The man a few feet away doesn't attempt to hide his stare and shamelessly investigates the scene he's met with; A man, perhaps mid to late twenties, struggling to catch his breath when he hadn't even been running, although maybe that's a foolish assumption. Perhaps it's not something physical that chases him, but a scar of the mind, like a past inescapable or a memory too heavy to bear on such a fragile frame.

Either way it captivates him and blocks out anything else even remotely of concern, focusing all his attention on the fluffy black hair that hung in front of such bewitching hazel eyes. The man doesn't know if its a blessing or a curse, a spell bound by the glow of the street lamps or the promising midnight breeze, or maybe even a match dealt by the hands of the stars themselves. He finds no answers to these questions, not in Wonho's eyes, nor his body. His mind is sealed for the time being.

"Hyungwon."

Hoseok turns his head in a perplexed manner, finally choosing to meet the eyes of his client and face the product of last night's shift. "Excuse me?" He asks, a little unreserved and informal.

The man some feet away seems surprised at his own outburst of speech, eyes searching the pathway below for answers to who knows what. Hoseok can only wonder what occurs in the minds of the rich, how struggles come and go, if there are any to speak of in such a lifestyle.

He catches himself silently comparing himself to the streetlights once more as he thinks, counting down the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Detonation is confirmed by sharpened glass and wavering electricity, forever lingering like the scent of sex that clings to his skin no matter how hard he scrubs. The days he's wasted away, desperately plunging underneath icy waters in a bathtub too small, tiles reflecting the thousands of tears that mix with the droplets of liquid fear. Streams flow out of the sides as the space is maximized, spilling over due to the tub being occupied by a body that felt more like dead weight.

He pushes those thoughts away with an exhale of breath, unlatching his tired fingers from problems unsolvable and letting his smoke clouds do the speaking for him. He breathes outward, soft, rhythmic tendrils spreading out in a design favourable by the most critical artists 'round the block. They twist and turn, delicately billowing like fine silk under millions of tattered hands, a stark contrast to the lungs that produce them. It alerts the man standing near the exit, pulling him back into reality with a tug on his expensive, suave jacket and collecting in clouds around a thin frame not built for this part of the streets.

His client smiles as he pulls his jacket ever closer, clearly not as used to the barren cold of the alleyways as Hoseok, uncomfortable even in his finest clothing. "That's my name- Hyungwon. Thought you might want to know." The reassurance comes in a form of awkward hesitance, but it's a name nonetheless.

Hoseok can't believe his ears.

That's rich, even more so than the standing of which you would describe the man who called himself "Hyungwon." It taunts him, a constant awareness seeping into his bones the moment it's spoken and battering his brick wall set high in order to block out, well, times and people such as these.

The name is simple, a two syllable word spoken between the street lamps. Yet, Hoseok finds himself in an unbearable fit of laughter.

The raven haired prostitute chuckles around the stick placed strategically between full lips, dangling loosely as the flame teeters on the edge of survival and sputters in a tiresome sort of way. The spark is not nearly as bright as the bitter smile that paints itself across a face void of any happy memories left to hold, not quite a match for the giggles and hearty laughter that spread through the city streets and die among the shouts and cries of the pedestrians. Kind of sad, Hyungwon thinks, how that smile is hidden from the world, such radiance blocked by a terribly altered reality.

Hoseok can't remember the last time he's heard anybody introduce themselves.

Plumes surround the shorter male and fall gracefully from his lips with every heave of his chest, laughter becoming almost concerning as it swallows up the atmosphere and bitterly soaks the night in its deep set hatred beneath false cheerfulness. Hyungwon isn't exactly sure what's so funny and doesn't seem to comprehend why he had been compelled to find the other man anyways. He doesn't understand what about the smoke ridden angel practically gift wrapped on his doorstep fascinated him, or why he had slowly become a man Hyungwon finds he wouldn't mind seeing once more, either lost in his bedsheets or intoxicating the alleyways with his trademark bursts of glittering ash.

Hoseok finishes off his howls of laughter with a cough to his inner elbow, no doubt distributing the sparkles scattered there in puffs of brilliance throughout the air. A breeze finds its way somewhere along the cracked pathway and races from brick to brick, picking up the bits and pieces of his glitter and taking them with what was left of his dignity, if he had had any to speak of. The winds ruffle the shock of black hair atop his head and pull on all their curves and edges, offering them a sweet escape as it tugs on the ends of Hyungwon's extravagant overcoat, reminding him that he is indeed a man of purpose, a man who did not belong to the streets of Seoul after midnight hits.

A hand is thrusted in Hyungwon's direction as he shuffles his stance from each foot to the other and awkwardly taps his slender fingers on his thigh. He raises his gaze to meet it with that of the man who intrigues him, pervades his thoughts and makes a home for himself by laying down a bed of eternal regret. The sight appears in a way that he might call sad, tragic even- a nightmare coming to life, and all he can do is watch as it plays itself out in a silent manner. All he can stare at are the remains of the faint makeup smudged across his wrist bone and decorating thin fingers, as if the boy had been wiping at his eyes and lost all care for if he ruined his face or not. Its only purpose seemed to be to make the hand appear more desolate than before, a picture speaking a thousand words with just those five fingertips splayed against the pavement.

Hyungwon blinks in confusion, tilting his head to the side as if thinking about what it could mean, processing the action and the face behind it. The worker sighs, rolling his eyes as he holds the hand up higher and brings his thumb and index finger together, rubbing them against each other in a motion that the man may understand. "Money? You have to pay up."

He raises an eyebrow and Hyungwon finds it looks rather exasperated.

But he comprehends, nodding his head and reaching around for his back pocket before pulling out a smooth, leather bound wallet, cracking it open using the golden clasp on the top. He reaches in and pulls out a couple of crisp, folded bills, handing them to the dark haired man.

Hoseok eyes the money, grasping it hesitantly as he counts the amount in his hand. A quizzical look finds its way onto his face upon adding up the cash. "You gave me extra?" He states, tone a little higher toward the end as if phrasing it like a question, like he didn't quite understand why someone as upheld and responsible would overpay a hooker.

Before Hoseok can argue, Hyungwon pushes all of the bills back to his bare chest (which he had surprisingly not noted before, or he would have given him a coat). He gives what he hopes to be an encouraging smile but probably comes out as blatant pity, shaking his head in refusal as Hoseok begins to give it back. "No, I want you to have it all. Think of it as a tip for last night," He reassures, focusing on the flickering embers in Hoseok's hazel eyes and watching how his pupils dilate at the touch of fingers on his chest. He isn't sure why he's doing this. He isn't even sure why he's out here right now.

Something akin to anger flashes through the exact eyes he had been viewing, eyebrows furring into a furious or disgusted glare directed at himself. There's something else, too, flecks of hurt or maybe even sadness. The expression itself brings time to a stop as they freeze in motion, staring into each other's hearts and itching to say more than what it is currently being said. But it doesn't matter, because after those five seconds are up, Hoseok is pulling away.

Hoseok backs up in short strides of anguish, a stone-cold visage blocking off any other emotions that threaten to break through the surface. Dark bangs that tickle his forehead only create a more fearsome look, complete by his defensive stance he takes some distance away from Hyungwon, like he was a virus that needed to be avoided for survival.

He scoffs, teeth clucking in annoyance as he shakes his head, hair waving in rhythm with his rapidly beating heart. He quickly takes out his trusty lighter from his shorts pocket and fondles it in hand, turning it over and staring at the silvery object. He examines the scratches, admires how it shines when it catches the dying streetlight's glow, capturing the essence of his misery and bringing a glimpse of luminescence into his obscure reality.

He meets Hyungwon's look of confusion with a dirty smirk, anger and irritation flaming in his eyes beyond the flecks of gold the client knows are hidden there. The grimace is illuminated by the soft flame that dances with the shadows it casts, quivering, shimmering and radiating heat against the cool blasts of the summer night.

The smirk does not disappear as Hoseok holds the extra bills to the flame of his lighter, watching in fascination at how the blaze consumes the paper in a quick and easy manner, the bright and radiant glow catching his eye and holding it in place. He watches the ashes fall to the ground below in twisting paatterns, the dying remains a sort of relaxing sensation incomprehensible by those who have no need for flames, or simply do not want them.

The taller man quirks an eyebrow, swallowing in his nervousness.

Hyungwon fights off a surprised expression in order to not scare off the other, slightly astonished at the rebellious display of behaviour coming from someone who he never expected to do anything but obey. He finds that there's a certain beauty in the act, even, like a secret being whispered and told through touches that burn skin to a crisp, or a cryptic movement of a figure within the shadows that stares with menacing eyes from beneath a starlit sky. A scene he was not supposed to see, yet found himself wanting to again.

There's not a single trace of happiness inside the gaze that watches the wavering flames that spread like wings, covering up every last bit of the night with its sorrowful phosphorescence and painting Hoseok's face in shades of anger. Hyungwon has never been so confused by a person's way of speaking or their lifestyle, can't quite understand what exactly he is seeing, or what to do. So, he remains silent, averting his eyes to instead glance up to the sky.

Hoseok shakes his head, flicking the lighter closed and quickly returning it to his back pocket after nothing is left of the cash. He sighs, swiveling the stick of ash between his fingers so the butt faced outward and singed the wall behind him, putting it out against the brick and revelling in the sputter that cracks from the sparks, dying a thousand times over with every smoke. Hyungwon guesses this is to signify his exit, allow the earth to know that he is done for the time being. Not available.

Hyungwon's guess turns out to be reality as the worker begins to step away down the alley in nothing but his shorts and the lamp's glow to protect him from the darkness of the city, alone during the eerie hours of nightfall. His footsteps sound against the pavement and reverberate along the walls, filling up Hyungwon's ears with the sound of his departure, a noise the man believes he will hear many a time again. They swallow up any questions, any remarks or arguments the taller might have to the younger disappearing like a candle's flame in the wind, erasing them with bitter and harsh strokes on the tip of his tongue in the form of ashes drifting leftover in the air.

"Bye, _Hyungwon_."

It's perplexing.

Hyungwon doesn't argue, doesn't call after him or yell for destroying the money. He doesn't even know why, he just didn't.

Despite the ever present plumes of smoke that surround the younger, the ashes that trail behind him like the dead sparks of a crackling fire, there's not one mark left to tell you he had come. He came, he smoked, and he went about his way.

And that was just how it worked.


	2. Blaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little slow going, because I wanted to get some stuff out of the way. I hope you guys are ready for chapter 3 (trust me you're not) because its gonna be A GOOOOOD ONE

The soft pitter patter of water leaking from the faucet is the only thing that meets his ears.

Undertones of violet, brushes and strokes of blooming red shimmer beneath the water's surface and flower across his pale skin. It's a grand masterpiece, following the theme and pattern that settles in his heart and burns it to dust, decorations of sin that plague not only his physical form. The red hues that are bitten into his collar bones could rival that of roses, he thinks, flowers contained by thorns that threaten to tear him to shreds.

The purples are not as bad, he finds. They're almost pretty. Perhaps it's just familiarity, and he's just become lost in the way water ripples over the colours, dripping down the brusied skin and causing the image to waver at its touch. The purples are always more painful than the reds, but he finds that it's the crimson that is much harder to adjust to, catching his eye every time he had been unfortunate enough to walk by a mirror that wasn't cracked and stained with the very colour he despised.

Maybe the reds didn't hurt as much, but pain corrupts people in more ways than one.

It's almost funny how as the years pass by in silent solitude and the minutes drag themselves across the clock in slow motion, he still believes he can convince himself. Hoseok does not stop trying, won't give in to the temptation and continues to find things about himself or his life that he can say are are truly beautiful. Until one day, he does stop. He completely gives in, inhaling the water instead of keeping it out, holding the flame of his lighter to his face just a little to close for comfort. He stops counting the hours before he has to leave for his shifts, disregards so many moments that eventually even the happy ones seem to disappear as well.

 The pale body shifts inside the tub, causing little streams of water to overflow and drip down the sides of the plastic, droplets racing each other to the floor below. The surface ripples around his submerged figure and clings to his fingertips, little whirlpools of misery dancing around upon the liquid being broken at the top.

They're only there for about a couple of seconds, silently twirling and twisting in rings of clear blue, distracting him from the soreness that creeps into the darker corners of his body and settles in his bones, lurking like shadows at the corners of his vision, forever taunting him from the inside.

After the tiny whirlpools have left, he feels utterly and unbearably alone...scared. It's such a simple action to create more, lift a finger to drag it across the water and watch the after effects. But even he realizes that water is not real company, and it, although there in physical form, cannot really help him to fix anything. Not now or ever.

He's thought to himself so many times now about the how and the why, eternally stuck under questions without answers, that he's almost forgotten how to think about anything at all. Hoseok is a void, full of nothing and everything all at once that it's become black and empty, past the point of return and dancing along the sharp edges that trap him, yet dare him to climb out of the mess he's drowning in.

But there's no more footholds on the walls, no clear paths to a merciful exit with a better life awaiting at the end. They're concealed by cracked, broken roads and smoke so dark it appears to manifest into a living nightmare, guarded by monsters he himself created long ago. He may have put up these walls, yes, but it hadn't necessarily blocked the pain out.

In fact, Hoseok wonders if he had really just locked it in.

Either way he has to fight this in the end, tie the loose ends and wrap up any unfinished business he has with his own thoughts. One day he'll face it all; the smoke, the lights, the glitter. He'll meet it head on with an attitude his mother might have been proud of, reveal the side of him that was hiding in the deepest corner of his mindset one last time. Hoseok isn't sure when, but he knows how, and that's one more question crossed off the list.

Hoseok looks down at his body again, a pattern of torture unbreakable by his weak heart.

His eyes follow a trail of flowering red marks that travel up his chest and end somewhere along his jawline, harsh kisses of hellfire stinging his once flawless skin with sinful lips that he wants to believe speak nothing of the truth. They're bright and bold, even more so under the faint streams of moonlight that bleed in from somewhere behind, brandishing his body as one he hasn't owned in years, probably never will again. The purples are painful. But the reds are a reminder.

To be honest, he's done thinking about it all. He just wants to escape.

So Hoseok takes a deep breath of the ashy air and holds it, has half a mind to do so rather than carelessy plunge underneath the water in fear that he may not be able to fight the urges. The thoughts.

He submerges himself fully, hair and all, calmly settling into a cavern of quiet yet deadly silence that shimmers along with his faded irises. His eyelashes flutter closed just before they can touch the surface, making almost no sound as he submits himself to the water's icy barrier, a promise of temporary protection he can't help but accept with desperation.

This is the kind of place in which a person like him could hope to find peace, a silent and unrelenting part of the world, lonely and frigid. It's the time of the day Hoseok gives himself a taste of something he can never have, teasing his lungs and allowing his thoughts to run rampant, giving free reign to the panic and the terror, yet watching close by in order to not lose full control.

Not today, at least.

Here, Hoseok doesn't have to wonder if the drops that trail down his forehead and cling to his jawline are tears, or water. He doesn't have to think about it, doesn't have to admit he's wasted himself and the minutes he lives in crying the moments away, each fresh tear marking the days closer to which they will stop, never flow again from his eyes. And the saddest thing about it is that they won't come from anyone else either, because nobody will know or care past that point in time, not a single person will turn their head

He knows he's getting closer when his lungs start to burn and he feels hot fire course through his veins despite being surrounded by the icy substance. Hoseok tilts his head backwards and opens his eyes, blinking the mist away with butterfly kisses to the water and allowing himself to see clearly. He wants these moments, he needs to know even if it kills him, which it very well could.

The pulse in his temples starts to get louder, beating harshly in his ears to the tune of his crying misery and clouding the edges of his vision in wavering patches of inky black. All of his blood rushes and his fingertips become heavy, itching to claw through the water in search of air to breathe, but he pays it no mind for the next two or so minutes.

It's when he feels his lungs about to collapse on themselves that he finally breaches from the self constructed prison and gasps, shaking his jet-black hair to decorate the bathroom walls in thousands of tiny gem like droplets of liquid. Anyone else looking down at the display of sparkling light might see something beautiful, consider it a type of art underneath the dim bathroom lighting. But all Hoseok sees is a symbol of sadness.

He inhales and exhales deeply for a few moments, breathing in the sick air that he himself had created, no other person to blame besides him for this mess he's made. He accepts it all with open arms, unlocking the emotions buried deep inside his heart and letting the tears stream down his cheeks freely, a picture of vulnerability inside of a body strong and structured with confidence crafted through the years of bruises and blood contrasting to milky skin.

The serenity passes in quick tune with the midnight breeze, a sharp yet relaxing burst of coolness before the heat settles in at daybreak with the sun's rise in the sky. It's gone before he can even take a breath and travels somewhere beyond the reach of his fingertips, opening up an entryway for the bad to return.

And the second it's gone, Hoseok loses himself.

Fists smash through the calm, collected surface of the water below his gaze, thrashing and flailing and sending waves flying out of the tub to splash against the walls in his fury. The cries he's kept deep inside claw their way out of his throat in the form of hyperventilation and broken sobs, shrieks of pain echoing throughout the streets and drifting along the bitter grass outside like a forgotten memory that lingers on the mind.

That's how this night is spent, not unfamiliar in the slightest, as he cries and cries and cries. He yells out apologies to his parents, to himself, to anyone who is willing to listen, which at the moment is sadly nobody. Not in this world, and probably not even in any other either.

He's alone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The night that follows is a peculiar one.

Instead of rough hands that yank on his hair and indent his skin with tiny crescent nail marks, he's greeted by the feeling of gentle caresses and soft lips placed carefully at the base of his neck. He counts the heartbeats he feels against his own, becoming lost with the ones and the twos, the rhythmic thrumming of blood under the skin, hot with lust. It's not familiar at all.

Tonight Hoseok remembers every last detail, every last puff of smoke in between the curtains that cascade around his semi naked form, a barrier between the predator and the prey. It's a break in the pattern, a rift he had been unprepared for, and he can't seem to decide if he liked that or not. Sure, it's different, but isn't repetition the only thing keeping his feet on the ground?

Fluttering kisses and soft grazing of fingertips are committed to his brain, a taller man drawing city skylines at the base of his abdominal muscles, or maybe he'd really just imagined it all. It's almost criminal how the slow pace sends his eyelashes wavering, his skin searing with heat and breaths coming out in ragged gasps against the pillows, muttering something the other can't quite make out. Instead the client decided to lean down and captured Hoseok's lips in between his own, where neither can feel the push and pull of teeth or tongue. Sweet, like sakura flowers falling from the branches on the streets outside, untainted and pure.

Everything about it is confusing.

Hoseok finds comfort in situations he's been in, places and people he knows how to handle and manipulate to his advantage. But it's not the kind of night on which he can do so, ripped out of his story and placed in a new one.

He thinks about that as red tinted lips travel all over his body, silently murmuring sweet nothings between the breaths exhaled under soft, feathery kisses. The touches are delicate, a contrast to the usual, his client taking immense care with the body like Hoseok (or Wonho, as the clients knew him) was made of pure glass. And he was, just not to the eye of the public.

The entire experience is careful yet sensual in a way he hasn't felt in years. The man above him doesn't rush the fireworks that explode behind his eyes, doesn't manhandle the pale skin beneath his palms. Hyungwon is gentle as he presses him into the bedsheets with ease.

When their lips finally meet after long moments of bliss, Hyungwon kisses him like he means it. He shouldn't feel that way, since feeling is dangerous for someone like him and Hoseok has discarded the ability long ago, and this is a man who has not known him past the time of 48 hours. Yet the thought lingers, trapped inside of the heated kiss they share.

Afterward, they don't move for what feels like hours. All they can register are the sounds of their breaths escaping their tired lungs, all they can feel are tiny whisps of starlight trotting along the room from where they escape through the blinds, reminding them of the place and the time of which they currently reside in, so they'll never be able to forget this hour.

It's now that Hoseok realizes, he hasn't really been held in years.

Sure, he's been wrapped in many different people's arms, their sweaty chests parallel to his own, hugged so close he could hear their panting breaths right alongside his ear, urgency and desperation clear in the action. But never, not since he last saw his mother, has he ever been held out of love.

So the feeling of being pressed to another person's body, gentle and quiet, is absolutely foreign to him.

Hoseok takes a moment to wonder how it all happened, what steps it took to get him to this place, but all he finds are blank memories and thoughts locked away where he can't...access them. Like his own life is wasting away in front of his eyes and there was not a single thing he could do to prevent it from disappearing completely. After all, he started this lifestyle, so why not finish it?

He doesn't know, and he won't ask. He won't wonder how he got here, or why the purples are fading in place of blossoming red colours. Hoseok has always had millions of questions in his eyes, but no one to answer them.

So instead of wasting the pitiful time he has left, he sinks back into the pristine sheets and let's them comfort his broken body. He breathes in the fresh air that filters in through the windows, sweet and sharp as it carries with it the soft sound of crackling thunder miles away. It's so peaceful, so serene, he can't help but become suspicious.

All the wandering and rampant thoughts that are plaguing his mind vanish without a second glance as a thin arm wraps around his waist, the feeling of something other than lust radiating off of the soft skin and feeling breaths that are even rather than ragged fanning over the expanse of his neck. Together all the sensations create a calm unlike any other, relaxing his tired muscles and even more so, his mind.

Hoseok's eyes close to the feeling of a nose buried in his neck, eyelashes just barely touching the skin underneath his ear. He feels the ups and downs of the chest pressed to his back, and allows himself one of those moments once more. A moment in which he can backtrack, release, revel - destroy himself with false hope, bittersweet torture that strings him together yet tears him down in the end.

He takes a breath, and it's alright. Just alright, for now.

Alright is all he needs.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Nights spent lost between the sheets somehow turn into weeks in which they find themselves caught up in the stars, infinitely existing inside of a timeframe Hoseok never really asked to be a part of. He finds that although life has never been quite kind to him, it especially enjoys to wreck him in the most ironic of ways, suffering coming in the form of happiness he knows better than to believe is real.

Everything about the world was fake, from the people to the places in which they reside, mirrors upon mirrors reflecting the same exact manner in millions of others around him, and he couldn't help but feel different, isolated.

And although the world is bright with promise, shimmering against the flow of cash and privelege that masks the problems in the darkness, Hoseok is aware of the ever present corruption that grows with free reign in the corners light refuses to touch. Funny, he thought, how not every part of us or the planet could be kissed by luminescence, and despite our want or need to find love and freedom, there will always be spots we will fail to reach. People or places we cannot save no matter how many of us desire a "change."

It's in the shadows his heart lives, but his body is forever shrouded in blinding lights. The stars bathe him in eternal sin that eats away at his bones and leaves him a shell of the person who once lived within it, pulling him in yet pushing him out and away only to be drowned in his own thoughts that light him up like a raging blaze, silent trails of smoking fabricating in his wake like a reminder only to those who knew him.

If one asked Hoseok what he truly desired two years ago, he would find himself replying with, "Hope." Had you asked him what he needed so desperately one year past, he might tell you, "Freedom." Now, Hoseok will leave that question unanswered, walking away and disappearing like a light fading from your vision.

Hoseok doesn't do questions. Answers don't necessarily solve a dilemma, not unless they are, or can be, carried out. And he cannot even hope to be able to do so.

Not like this.

It doesn't even sadden him, not anymore, at least. In fact, he finds comfort in the tinty yet significant ways time seems to use in order to break him, as he knows all too well that they have long since lost effect.

The truth was, he was already broken. Has been for moments on top of moments now, years following behind closely on his heels to ensure he can never escape. He doesn't bother running from it and not once does he look back, cool strides carrying him to a finish line that was far too close to be normal.

But he'll be okay, as long as he gets there.

Dreams are no longer a concern of which he must wonder, work, count down the deadlines or fret about past experiences. There is nothing that chains him to any person, place, or thing, a free soul dancing its way across cracked pathways that smell of rainwater and screaming thunder, a relaxing lullaby understood by his ears alone, a whisper of comfort holding him up at the base and spurring him to complete the final lap.

Dreams, he's concluded, have no use in the minds of those who cannot hope to achieve them, and are better off as a lingering thought than an accomplishment that is far too hard to reach in the first place. After all, if you chase a dream, it will run from you.

The world was crafted of dreamers and doers, but somehow Hoseok had slipped through the cracks, found himself and recognized reality within a space that existed between the two. Some people were just meant to crash, others were meant to presevere. Him? He was meant to strive, like a wavering flame that threatens to grow to full force, only to burn out into dark despair, smoke remaining as the single memory that he permits the earth to keep in its arms, anonymous pain left for only the air to grieve.

Hoseok never wanted to be remembered.

He was so distracted by his future that his present became the past, life melting away with soft drips into the palms of his scarred hands and slipping through the curves of his bones. He had tried to collect it once, savour the memories, before it all began to spill over, and Hoseok decided his life was not one that was meant to be contained, or tampered with.

Hoseok was not a dreamer. But then, one could argue that he once was, a bigger dreamer than any other person who set foot on the same ground he has, a mind once full with ambition and hope now rotting inside a body long past its expiry date. He doesn't really remember exactly what it was he wanted in life, and doesn't think he ever will.

Some memories are better left untouched, blindness keeping him from being able to see the mess he has created in his wake, like a barrier between him and the trail that follows every foot step that grows heavier and shakier throughout the minutes spent staggering underneath the city's gaze. If that same shield were to falter for even a moment, allow him to know just what he is walking away from, he thinks he may not be so eager for the steet lamps to die out.

All these thoughts are exhaled through his lips in the form of nicotine clouds, immediately replaced by a bout of fresh air and forgotten like an old friend that remains in the back of your mind, but you can't seem to recall.

Either way, it passes.

 

The man whose name sticks to his thoughts like glue that keeps his cracks together becomes a regular part of his nights, and slowly the purples begin to fade from his skin in place of hundreds of red lovebites, claiming him, caging him, an action that swears protection but really just destroys him all in one.

The man never abuses his privilege, never asks for anything more than a simple round of gentle, intimate sex, never pressures him to speak when all he really wants is to remain silent, leave quietly, and return the next evening. You'd think it should relieve him, but no.

It terrifies him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
Two weeks is a short time on the calendar of a regular, healthy person, in the life of someone who has no need to measure and monitor each action with careful precision. 14 days are fast, easy, but to Hoseok it was not just a simple 14 days. It was 14 days closer to release, 14 days closer to freedom, 14 days of a life he had no intention to stay in longer than he must. 14 days of absolute suffering.

Those 14 days brought him closer to happiness yet pulled him back from it at the very same time, teetering on the edge of insanity, or maybe he was already there. Maybe he made it there years ago on his path through the dark parts of himself, and he's only just realizing it now, that he's reached a point in which he cannot recognize himself or others.

  
In those two weeks Hoseok learns what he thinks must be more than he has ever learned in his lifetime here, answers without questions, rather than questions without answers. He doesn't know which is worse, or which holds more meaning.

Each night passes in the shadows of their bodies pressed together underneath soft kisses of dusk and captures them in its essence of fear, feeding off of the confusion that works its way through his body slowly, yet surely, a wildfire spreading in his veins. Hoseok has never done questions, not exactly one to possess an answer, yet when Hyungwon needed one, he gave it. He finds that although he is the one providing the material, it is him who learns the most from the experience of searching for a simple yet thought provoking statement to grant the taller man. In a perfect world, one might say he brought out the best in Hoseok.

But he is all too aware that this world was anything but perfect.

Perfect is a far cry from the scent of whispy smoke invading your senses, the near opposite of this tundra of emotion in which he lives, cradling him in touches that diverge between hot and cold breaths over bare skin. Perfect is not a word he can remember, let alone associate with a life in which he dies with every night forecoming.

Besides, how does one forget what has already been forgotten?

Hoseok's way of life has constited of discarded memories exchanged through trickling blood down wrists of ivory, past never really being his present in the first place. Trails of thought left unfinished by scattered moments lost within the depths of his future. Broken twilight hovering in the clouds, solemn and unspoken.

That's how it has been since the day the world became a stranger, every moment from then until now wasting away behind reflections shattered by empty impulsivity. Vacancy plastered on his face and head held high above the city streetlights, he worked his way through the dying remains of what was once a life worth living, yet has now become what he himself could not bare to watch.

But there's one exception, one timeframe inside of which there is no room to forget. Hours held captive by the prominence of night's quiet presence, crescent moons through gaps in the smoke veil like visions of heaven unreachable by his hand, or any for that matter.

Nights with Hyungwon were nights full of love, heartbreak, confusion. They were nights of inquiry, of discovery and thought, whispy starlight upon gravel and brick. Times like these were inescapable, unimaginable, a dream that took him through loops of temptation, begging him to take the hand that reached out.

It's a pattern, although not the kind he so needs to live. It's new. Unfamiliar, memories unwanted.

And Hoseok doesn't need new things.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

  
"Can I have a smoke?"

Tendrils bury themselves in the cracks and crevices of the alleyway, filling the space with memories of past nights spent shrouded in smoke and cryptic fingerprints trailing down the brick walls. Phantom smiles are hidden behind layers of reckless abandon, dragging behind them in memories of the club and teasing at their lips, sparking in their reflections upon the leftover raindrops scattered across the ground.

The thick scent of ash is masked by the invasion of rain on the windowsills, earthy and peaceful, yet gloomy, nightmares twirling together with a dream uninterpreted. The scarce tapping sound echoes in their ears and sings to the night like a lullaby of the sky, each drop a verse, humming to the tune of their broken heartbeats inside of their chests.

Questions without answers. Answers without questions. In that moment, one does not hesitate to wonder, which of the two could save you, or break you.

Hoseok decides after hours of thought, it must be answers without questions that threatens to take your life. If by some miscalculation he might turn out to be incorrect and the questions do end up to destroy him, he will simply laugh, for there is nothing left to destroy.

It's with these thoughts that he finds himself speaking them aloud, tongue heavy with charcoal fire and singed by a fluttering ashy breeze, lips cracked and dry from the impact of night's harsh kiss. It must create a mirror of darkness inside the allweway that showcases the true nature of those in pain, a reflection of one's own masked struggle breaking through the surface with fervent desire. Smoke billows out from his mouth. Once more, they're hidden.

"No, get your own."

Hoseok scoffs as if offended by the question, vaguely wondering if Hyungwon really believed he might forfit the pack in his hand. Always in his hand. Forever in his lungs. Never, not once, in his eyes.

Hyungwon grimaces, shifting in place from one foot to another. The silence between them is comfortable, an acception of shared space between two souls lost under completely different circumstances. But tonight, he dares to do, to try, to leap and trust those who he should not to catch his fall. He asks.

"Well, why not? You've probably got tons of packs," he questions, suspiciously glaring from underneath his eyelashes at the beautiful man leaning on the wall. He's always leaning, Hyungwon notes. When a lack of noise is all that he finds, he pushes just a little more. "Just one? Please?"

Hoseok makes a sound akin to a snort but is really more of a laugh, feigning annoyance at the polite demand that he hears from his client. It's not in his nature to ignore a command, but he had come to see that Hyungwon was different, a new beginning with no real ending in sight. He was unpredictable the way the sun set low on the horizon, different colours, a different plethora of light for each night passing and a sky in which he can count the stars that shine from above.

"Yeah right. Over my dead body," Hoseok chuckles, looking over at a person who he thinks he might have called a friend, sometime in the past. But the past doesn't exist anymore, and neither does the future. In reality, he's just getting by.

Hyungwon laughs in return, already knowing full well he has no chance of weaseling one out of the other. He hums to himself in thought, taking in the bits of sky he could see through the smoke. "You sure smoke a lot for someone who can't afford it."

Hyungwon expects blushing cheeks and an embarrassed stature, pink skin fading under curling smoke. All he can hear is the thump of his heartbeat and the engine noises that drift somewhere outside of their space, enticing them with their energy. Energy wasn't really their thing, anyways.

Hoseok thinks, blinking away the lethargy and the dust that clings to the air they breathe. "Well, why does it matter to you?" He asks.

Hyungwon shrugs, fabric of his dress shirt crinkling against the shade of the brick wall. Ripples of satin smooth their way across his shoulders and a cream coloured collar shifts with his movement. "It doesn't, not really anyway, It just never really made sense to me?" The end of his sentence climbs an octave higher, phrasing it like a question.

A breeze trickles inward from the clouds, sweeping the answer out of his lungs like a supressed alternative, a universe or life murdered within his own body like mental suicide coursing through his veins. A nightmare designed to come to life.

He breathes in, trying to figure out if this man is worth the answer he is about to provide, before deciding that hope had been lost before he could even obtain it, and attempting to contain anything he had left might prove to be foolish anyways.

Hoseok speaks.

"It's my pattern," is the answer he's given. Before Hyungwon can ask for elaboration, more words tumble out of the worker's soft lips.

"Ashes and smoke and heat and flames, they're all so rigid, hateful. It's how I feel, how I've felt and probably always will. I've become ashes and smoke, I will be ashes and smoke, and my only dream left is to end as so." Sad smiles, withering flowers ever so beautiful as they wilt. Crystal sunlight and melting ice. He prays his voice doesn't break, and to his surprise, it didn't. "Consistency comforts me."

Hyungwon might think too long on what that could possibly mean, might scan the night for a question to fit this answer, because by the time he lifts his head, all he can see are ashes and smoke.

Nobody else in sight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) I'll proofread this later because I have to go do something rn so I'm sorry for any mistakes. It'll be fixed I promisE

**Author's Note:**

> originally I wanted to finish the entire thing in notes first and then post all the chapters in one go, but I was really excited about what I had and couldn't wait to post it :') but more is coming REALLY soon I promise. kudos/comments extremely appreciated!! <3


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